


Intemperance

by casualBergschrund



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Beta Derek Hale, Blow Jobs, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, First time with a man, Frottage, Knotting, Loss of Control, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mutual Pining, Outdoor Sex, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Pollen, Stiles Stilinski Returns, Stiles Stilinski is Derek Hale's Anchor, Stiles Stilinski is a Little Shit, Stiles Stilinski's Scent, Top Derek Hale, Top Derek Hale/Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Wolfed Out Derek Hale, Wolfed Out Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 04:08:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30049698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casualBergschrund/pseuds/casualBergschrund
Summary: In the years after giving up his Alpha status, Derek Hale has worked hard to lead a life of better self-discipline--especially when it comes to his anchor, Stiles. It hasn’t been easy, and he’s not been free from mistakes.A single full moon has Derek reconsidering the level of devotion he has to his abnegation.ORStiles gets into something he shouldn’t have and it changes everything.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 3
Kudos: 89





	Intemperance

_Following Derek Hale_

* * *

When Derek first smells it, his knot very nearly pops inside his dark denim jeans. His fangs tingle warmly at the base of his gums and his canines ache to lengthen. His fingernails itch as he impels his claws to stay retracted. He snaps his head in the direction the scent is coming from.

It arrests him almost immediately mid-run—for more than a few moments he feels bolstered to the forest floor, unable to move. His nostrils flare as he attempts to inhale as much of the scent as he possibly can. His whole body seems abruptly seized with an _edge_ that makes his skin buzz with the thrill of the intensity of it. He fights to suppress the moan that suddenly rises in his throat.

 _What in the fuck?_ He thinks.

He can assuredly say that he’s never been quite so affected by a smell in all of his years of life--and yet, it’s disquieting and familiar. The scent is sharp—heady and warm and _masculine_ and his entire body from his muscles to his gut to his bones is telling him to go and search it out until he finds the source. He can hardly believe how good it is, and it makes his head swim with excitement and his belly roil with primal desire. The depth of the feeling takes him by surprise. Although the full moon heightens his awareness in every possible way, he’s never been drawn to a scent with the kind of urgency he feels now.

Somehow, as if of their own accordance, his feet begin to step forward as he’s driven onward by an invisible force. His cock painfully swells in his pants and he grimaces to himself. Part of him is angry at his lack of self-control and another is aching to touch and _be_ touched. It seems that his body isn’t interested in reconciliation with his brain because he can’t stop moving toward _that smell._ It’s indulgent and familiar, and the longing that’s been settled and suppressed so deeply within him rises to the surface of his hindbrain.

Who is he kidding? It’s not just his instinct that’s being tantalized. 

Even with the full moon, it’s dark outside. A low, light fog has settled across the forest floor, wispy tendrils ghosting at his feet. The tepid air licks at his fitted black t-shirt and gently laps past the lapels of his leather jacket. He shivers as the cooling air of night sets him further on edge; his neck, arms, and torso erupt in pebbles of gooseflesh and he breathes out a sigh of...well, he doesn’t even know. At the moment, the reason for it feels impossible to place. Discomfort? He’ll admit to a fair amount. Anticipation? He’s going to go with ‘somewhat’. Desire?

His gums tingle again, and the feeling grows more persistent.

The trees are thick in this part of the Beacon Hills Preserve. And even through the mollifying smell of healthy leaves and dewy grass are prominent this time of year, that _smell_ permeates the summer air and nearly knocks the breath from his chest. He doubts he’s the only one in Beacon Hills that has caught a whiff of it. His fangs suddenly drop at the thought. The idea of another being experiencing what he is right now makes him agitated.

He takes a deep breath and forces his fangs to retract. How can he claim to be a pedagogue of control if he cannot restrain himself? What will all of his hard work have been for?

He _knows_ this smell, and yet it’s clearly different than what he’s gotten used to over the years since he first smelled it in these very woods. He stifles a whimper in his throat as he shortens the distance between himself and the scent that draws him in. It gets stronger the farther he walks to the north, and he begins to lend his focus more clearly on his heightened sense of hearing.

In the distance, he hears a voice; it’s soft and on the low side of tenor. He estimates it to be nearly a mile away.

That _voice._ A voice that has always made him feel alive from day one, whether it were from distrust and irritation; awe and altruism; comfort and yearning.

That voice is different, too, although he knows he hasn’t heard it in quite some time. It’s been at least a few months. Derek stops for just a moment and listens more intently.

He can’t make out the words yet from this far, but they sound alarmed and out-of-breath.

His audial focus is rudely interrupted as he scents the air again—the pheromones of pain and arousal spike quickly and assiduously and Derek doesn’t think he could ignore the duality of them even if it weren’t a full moon. Pain and arousal are definitely not things he is unused to smelling, (especially considering that a good portion of his early to mid twenties was spent getting injured by all manner of creatures and adventuring with teenage boys) but the _intensity_ at which they’re being thrown makes his brain buzz and threatens to simply liquefy his insides.

And although he _likes_ to think of himself as ever the pinnacle of control, he just can’t help himself tonight--he breaks out into a sprint through the forest. He runs faster than he has all night. He hasn’t even taken the chance to shift yet tonight, although he couldn’t even be bothered to be bitter about it because his skin is alight and tingling with excitement. Tonight, it has nothing to do with the thrill of anger or freedom under the full moon or killing small animals like his wolf wants him to do.

Another wave of the scent rolls over the air and seems to linger sweetly in his lungs and nostrils, and the distant voice is suddenly not so far away.

About 50 yards away, he sees a blue Jeep with a black door. He presses on.

His gait suddenly falters and stops as he hears a quiet, low groan and a gasp that decidedly sounds as if there’s an attempt to keep it concealed. The smell combined with the obvious sound of arousal has him screwing his eyes shut and balling his fists tightly to try and get a grip on himself.

A wanton but self-aborted moan has his eyes snapping open again and he is unable to ignore the compulsion to get to the source of the scent that has so rudely commanded his attention.

He knows who is standing there, about 10 yards away from where he is now. However, he’s not entirely sure what he should be doing about it. Against his will, his head swims with thoughts of sex and claiming and skin and--

Stiles.

_Stiles._

Why was Stiles out here? With no protection? Alone and on a full moon, no less? Smelling like _that?_ Like the most confusingly delicious thing he has ever had the pleasure of experiencing? Not that he would ever admit to anyone else that Stiles has _always_ smelled good to him. Always, even though the young man had a keen proclivity for irritating the absolute shit out of him.

He sees the front end of Stiles’ beat up, baby blue Jeep up ahead. He can’t help but wonder why he’s kept the damn thing for so long.

Derek knows that they must be somewhat close to one of the roads off of the preserve. The vehicle is off, but still smells faintly like exhaust. Stiles must have turned it off pretty recently. The trunk door is popped open and he can’t yet see the body of the human he is smelling.

He doesn’t know whether or not he feels violated by the smell. Stiles has always found a way to get underneath his skin, in one way or another. It’s been a recurring issue for Derek.

It’s difficult, but he collects his thoughts as best as he can. He decides to focus on the pain he’s smelling on Stiles instead of the arousal—although it really is no easy feat. The soft tenor moans he hears are of no assistance; though through the fog of his own incredible and unbelievable desire, the pain does deeply concern him.

Derek musters whatever little part remains of his self-control. If any more blood shifts to his dick, he thinks, he might just pass out. He knows that Stiles must have heard him approaching. The leaves and twigs crunch loudly in the dark. He still decides it would be prudent to make his presence known.

“Stiles,” he says firmly as he moves toward the Jeep. The name rolls off his tongue strangely, like it’s heavy from disuse. He wants to hesitate more but he can’t seem to stop. The urge to scent Stiles at his jugular causes a growl to rip from deep in his chest. 

That growl slices through the air and Derek internally winces at his admittedly stupid outburst as he prepares for a reaction from Stiles. He is desperately trying to remain collected. He’d like to throw all of the blame on his wolf. 

His wolf, however, seems to have other ideas on letting the tight leash of his control just snap.

There’s silence for a few moments, and then he hears Stiles clear his throat.

“Hey, Derek,” He says his name relatively casually, as if he hasn’t been away from home since the end of Spring Break. Stiles slowly and shakily breathes out, “hey, you, uh--go away.” His voice is low and throaty, dropped all but an octave lower than his usual conversational pitch. It makes Derek’s stomach squeeze with the delicious nausea of yearning. In this moment, it doesn’t feel like they’ve spent so much time away from each other.

He is unwilling to completely relent to Stiles’ request, but he does stop a couple of yards away from him. He had rounded his steps a bit in order to approach the Jeep from the side instead of the front. He wants to see Stiles, but he remains respectful of his statement. 

“Stiles,” he bites out. He doesn’t mean for it to sound like a warning, but the harsh delivery makes it so. He can see his legs now—they’re facing the Jeep. From the way it looks, Stiles is leaned forward, his hands propped against the inside of the trunk.

“Go away, Derek,” his voice comes out a little stronger this time, but remains thick. Derek narrows his eyes. He sounds serious, but Derek is incredibly skeptical, not to mention that he’s not dissuaded _at all_ by Stiles’ request.

 _Touch him, touch him, touch him,_ his instinct eggs him on. 

He steadies himself.

“What’s going on? What’s happening to you?” he asks as carefully as his voice will allow him.

“It’s nothing. Go away,” Stiles repeats. 

Derek can’t help but roll his eyes. Leave it to Stiles to be temperamental and cheeky, even when he’s desperate and in pain. It seems that college hasn’t really changed much.

“It doesn’t _smell_ like nothing. I could smell you over a mile away.”

He’s once again met with silence. He shifts on his feet. His cock is still so hard in his pants. Stiles’ unusually rich smell makes him dizzy and he’s quickly losing the tight grip he’s had on his control.

A few seconds pass but it feels agonizingly like minutes stretched out. Blood is pounding between his ears. 

Stiles decides to peek his head over the backside of his Jeep and their eyes finally meet. They’re red-rimmed as if he’s been crying, although nothing else in his scent or heartbeat tells Derek that this is true. Stiles’ face is flushed; a sheen of sweat appears on his brow and his chest heaves with labored breaths. Derek takes a step towards him.

Stiles turns to face him and holds his hands up, palms out with his fingers pointing up as a physical accompaniment to a verbal defense. “Stop. Derek, seriously. I swear to God and all that is holy, if you don’t get away from me right now—” Derek ignores him and growls again. Stiles fucking _whimpers_ in response and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. The smell of his arousal flares sharply and Derek feels gobsmacked.

 _You’re the one that should be getting away from me_ , he silently retorts, and he means it. His throat has turned to gravel and his chest is tight. He wants to rip the clothes off of Stiles and take him right here on the forest floor.

“Why are you out here right now? When did you get back to California?” 

_That last one was a stupid fucking question,_ he admonishes himself. He pauses and waits for an answer. Stiles shakes his head and doesn’t give him one.

“Why do you _smell like that?”_ Derek implores. He knows something is _wrong._ Stiles smells ripe for the taking and eager for it, too. The scent of his arousal has never been so particular. 

Derek’s concern is slowly beginning to bleed into impatience. Someone else is going to come across them and smell the aroma that he is greedily sucking lungfuls of. He is painfully aware that he is not the only supernatural creature in Beacon Hills out during a full moon.

“Dude, smell like _what?_ Just get the fuck out of here!” The younger man says, still characteristically petulant but sounding increasingly more insincere about wanting Derek to leave. He lets out another pained whimper after a moment, barely audible but still there.

“Don’t call me ‘dude’.”

Although he’s just been prickled with irritation, Derek decides that he needs to make a decision in the next 10 seconds or he’s going to lose any and all resolve. Though Stiles doesn’t realize it, he himself is throwing his pheromones. The air is cloyingly thick with the two of them, and he’s sure that any werewolf within smelling distance would assume he was staking a claim.

So he thinks quickly. Choice number one, he runs back in the direction he came from to escape this scent and leave Stiles to deal with whatever the hell is happening to him, alone. Someone will likely find him if he does. Choice number two, he stays where he is and makes sure he can take control of the situation and...protect Stiles. And choice number three?

Choice number three would be...

He tries to shake the thought from his fuzzy brain. Yeah, protect. The second choice. That’s what he needs to do. That’s all.

“It hurts,” Stiles finally offers up. It’s meek but at least it’s some sort of admission. Derek halfway makes up his mind. 

Stiles turns away from Derek back towards the trunk of his Jeep and leans forward with his face in his hands, elbows resting on the tan carpet of the trunk.

Derek hesitates, and manages to keep his screaming instincts at bay. He takes a step forward.

“What hurts?”

And like a burst dam, Stiles floods.

“Everything,” he moans. It sounds deliciously obscene the way he says it and Derek’s dick jumps in his jeans. The arousal is absolutely oozing off of Stiles and Derek can _smell_ the precome dribbling from his cock. He knows that Stiles has already come in his pants; he could smell it from the moment he arrived on the scene.

“I need—” his statement is aborted by another desperate moan, so he starts over. “I feel like I’m _dying._ I’m so hot.”

Against any better judgment he might have employed, Derek is beside Stiles in a second, before Stiles can even register the additional movement. Stiles jumps up in alarm and steps back from him, a noise of distress falling from his lips. His arms flail as he catches his balance.

“Stiles,” Derek says, squaring his shoulders and drawing himself to his full height. “What do you need?” He wants permission. He doesn’t know _why_ Stiles is in need, but he sure as hell _knows_ what Stiles needs--what he’s hesitating to ask for.

Stiles makes an indignant sound. “Ah, I, uh, Derek, just--”

It doesn’t escape him that Stiles attempts to cover the evidence of his erection with his hands. The flush on his skin has crept down the back of his neck. Derek wants to grip the back of it and feel the heat under his hands.

“Nothing, nothing! Just a normal night for me. Nothing to see here,” Stiles chokes out an attempt to brush Derek off with poorly executed humor. He looks up sharply at him through his lashes. His pupils are completely blown and the amber color of his irises have nearly been swallowed whole. He swipes his tongue along his bottom lip to wet it and forces a smirk.

Derek has never found him quite as endearing as he is tonight, but he’s settling on blaming that revelation entirely on the smell. It’s definitely not because over the past year, Stiles has begun to smell and look like a _man_ and not a _boy_ . It’s not because his hair has grown a few inches and the style suits him more than any other that Derek has seen on him. And it’s _definitely_ not because Stiles is and always has been beautiful to Derek, even when he was just a teenager full to the brim with distrust, brilliant ideas, and mordant satire.

Usually he has no problem controlling his urges and desires. But Derek can feel the feverish temperature emanating off of Stiles and he doesn’t really know _how_ he hasn’t reached out and touched him yet. Stiles’ body heat must rival his own right now. It makes his wolf rumble inside. 

Stiles begins to breathe heavier under his scrutiny. The sweet smell of anticipation begins to eclipse the acrid one of pain, but the anxiety spikes every time Derek makes any type of move toward him.

“Go away,” he repeats. His words come out in a gasp this time. “I can’t, we can’t, it hurts--”

“Stiles,” he interjects, “What happened?”

Stiles doesn’t answer at first. If Derek knows anything about Stiles, his body language is telling him that he’s embarrassed, and that’s the cause of his anxiety. His mouth opens and closes and he looks like he’s internally battling with an answer in his head. 

Finally, he gives in, and the suppressed anxiety forces the words out of his mouth like vomit. Stiles rubs a hand down his face in resignation.

“Uh--Deaton. Deaton, the Animal Clinic. I was, uh, I had nothing to do so I wanted to check on him before it got dark. Did you know that he’s working there again for the summer? He wants better experience for vet school, which is pretty cool. Makes me look like a schmuck, I need to get a job too, and I--”

“ _Stiles,_ ” Derek interrupts the nervous tirade.

Stiles stares at him for a few moments before he continues.

“Right..." he pauses. "Why does the human have this ridiculous eternal boner, here?" He attempts humor once more, and it's not working. Derek glares at him. "I, um, touched something he told me not to touch. Deaton. Not on purpose! And now I--fuck. Now I can’t get it to stop. I left Scott there, I had to get away. Kept driving until I couldn’t anymore. Don’t know why I came here, but I couldn’t think straight enough to get home,” He sighs heavily after the effort of his explanation.

For reasons currently beyond him, Derek’s possessive anger rises at the words ‘Scott’ and ‘had to get away’. Did he feel this way around Scott? Scott _saw_ him like this? Deaton too?

Derek’s intrusive thoughts are cut short as he notices that Stiles is staring unrelentingly at his mouth. With one hand, Stiles squeezes at the cock he’s been failing to hide and moans aloud again. The other skims at the hem of his hoodie, pulling it up enough for Derek to see the hair that leads into his boxers.

Derek finally snaps, permission be damned. He closes the distance between them and crowds himself against the slim, firm planes of Stiles’ body. One hand grips the hairs at the nape of his neck and the other grabs at a hip. He bares his teeth at Stiles, displeased at his poor explanation and angry at the thought of anyone else seeing him like this, smelling him like this, so needy and hot. Stiles stiffens against him and openly pants at the unexpected touch.

His hands bat away Stiles’ own and he grabs the bottom of his sweatshirt, pulling it and the t-shirt below it up past his belly and pectorals. Stiles quickly throws up his hands to help Derek remove the clothing from his body. Derek throws them into the Jeep. He notices with no small pleasure that Stiles has some hair on his chest now; a tuft of it teases between the valley of his pecs.

Stiles scrabbles to return the favor to Derek. He pushes the leather jacket off of his broad shoulders with surprising speed and mimics Derek by throwing it into the trunk of his Jeep. Derek takes off his own t-shirt underneath, pulls it with crossed arms smoothly up and away from his body. It joins the rest of their discarded clothing.

They move back to touch each other at once, hot bodies pressing into one another. Derek decides immediately that he loves the feel of Stiles’ lean muscle; he loves the way that Stiles’ freckled chest has definition that’s _just so;_ he loves the lightly defined six-pack that Stiles has gained since he’s been away. The feel of them against his own abs makes him moan.

Derek drops his nose down to where Stiles’ his neck meets his shoulder and takes a deep whiff of the skin there. His eyes roll back in his head—it’s so goddamn good. He wants to _devour_ him. 

Stiles arches against him at the action; his dick presses up against his own and Derek all but snarls at the delicious feeling.

“Fuck, Stiles, you--” Derek can’t continue because Stiles has suddenly accosted his mouth, all anxiety and embarrassed caution discarded. He’s planted his lips firmly on Derek’s. His hands fly up to his head and his fingers thread through his thick dark hair, pulling at the roots with a firm insistence. Derek groans at the slight pain and Stiles takes the opportunity to filthily lick into his mouth, kissing him with the fervor of a man starving. The enthusiasm he throws into the kiss nearly conceals the lack of experience he has, and it has Derek moaning lowly into his mouth.

Derek keeps pace with Stiles and drinks in the desperate sounds that are offered to him as they continue kissing. Stiles is frantically undulating his hips against him now and Derek moves to grip his hips on either side, pulling him in to fit against himself as tightly as he possibly can. His grip is firm and he forces Stiles to adjust to the pace he sets, which is much slower than what Stiles so obviously wants.

He breaks their kiss and Stiles makes a whine of protest before crying out as Derek begins to treat his neck to open-mouthed kisses, his teeth a whisper against Stiles as he tastes him.

“You have no idea what your smell is doing to me right now,” he whispers dangerously into Stiles’ neck. Stiles is the only guy he's ever wanted, and the fact that he's got him so close is driving him to a near-frenzy.

Derek laves his tongue in stripes up the column of his neck, rapaciously collecting all the salt left behind from his sweat. The younger man shudders underneath him. He sucks into his pale skin, leaving welt upon welt over it. He wants to leave nothing to anyone’s imagination. He knows it’s insanely ridiculous, but his wolf wants Scott to know for certain what happens tonight. 

Derek can’t believe how good it feels to have Stiles up against him. The coil in his belly is deep and delicious.

“Fuck, Derek, fuck, stop that, I can’t--”

He cuts him off with a sharp nip to his skin.

“Tell me you want this,” Derek manages to grate out. Stiles makes a strangled noise that spurs Derek into continuing his ministrations, and he alternates nips and kisses to the other side of his neck. “Tell me, Stiles. Say yes,” he continues. Derek doesn’t think he’s ever felt so hot in his entire life. He desperately wants to _take take take._

Stiles presses impossibly closer to Derek, like he’s trying to absorb his body into his own. Derek quickly squeezes his hips. He intends it as a warning and a promise, because he slows down and uses his strength to hold Stiles’ hips completely still. He keeps him where he wants him and rubs his cock in a way that's just plain torturous up his length, and back down again. Each pass takes a few seconds, and it feels like an eternity for both of them. Stiles makes a cry of frustration and grips Derek at his biceps, the pressure of his fingers leaving an impression upon his skin. Stiles looks down between their bodies, dismay written clearly upon his face. He tries to jerk his hips but Derek won’t let up. He seems to realize that he’s caught in yet another predicament--do this alone or do this with Derek.

So for the second time tonight, Stiles relents. He looks back up at him with heavy-lidded eyes. They flicker to his lips again and he leans up and claims Derek’s lips again. Something in Derek’s belly flips and his heart tightens. This is all happening so fast. 

“Yes, yes, I want you,” he moans out the words between kisses. The words ‘want you’ versus ‘want this’ doesn’t escape Derek. It makes him so hot under his skin, so he eases his grip on Stiles’ hips and rolls his own forward again. He lets Stiles resume the brutally fast pace he seemed so fond of before, and anchors his hands on his ass.

“Ah, no, I’m gonna, Derek, I’m gonna,” Stiles babbles against his lips. He pulls away from Derek’s face and drops his forehead on his shoulder, and Derek just can’t help himself—the breathy ‘ah, ah, ahs’ that Stiles is supplying so sweetly to him is driving him insane with lust. So without ceremony, he bites down on the meat of Stiles’ shoulder with human teeth—hard enough to bruise.

Stiles’ hips stutter and his grip on Derek’s hair tightens painfully as he loudly shouts out an orgasm into his neck. The volume of it seems so much more significant in the quiet of the woods. The smell of his release washes over Derek and he groans through his teeth that are still secured on Stiles’ flesh.

He lets Stiles ride it out against him and then gingerly pulls away from his neck to look at his face. Stiles tilts his own head up to meet his gaze, his eyes lidded heavily and lips swollen from the force of their kissing. A bead of sweat falls from his temple and slides down his face. 

“That did _not_ just happen,” Stiles says softly, closing his eyes. His voice a mixture of embarrassment and disbelief. Derek holds him and allows the ghost of a smile to pass over his lips. They stay in each other’s arms for long, breathless moments.

It isn’t long before he presses insistently against Derek again and chokes out a frustrated sob.

“It won’t go away,” he manages to say, the desperation heavy in his voice. “Please, more,” he begs. Stiles begins to kiss up his neck, sloppy and wet. The scrape of teeth on the scruff at his throat draws a moan out of Derek. Stiles keeps rubbing against him and he can’t help from rubbing back. He’s still painfully hard. He wants to use Stiles’ body to come. This is all making him feel like he's about to get lost in a rut.

Although he and the wolf inside of him wants nothing more than to acquiesce to Stiles, to fold him in half among the leaves and dirt and take him the way he knows he wants it, he still has to remember he’s supposed to be protecting Stiles, too. Through the haze of his lust, Derek responds.

“We should get out of here. Let’s go somewhere else, Stiles.” He looks around at their surroundings. “It isn’t safe out here,” he adds for good measure. Scott is the only alpha in the area and it’s incredibly unlikely that he nor anyone else would challenge him for his particular position, but right now there’s still a small part of him that wants to usher Stiles away from the dark of the forest. 

Derek doesn’t see anyone else nor does he smell anyone else but that doesn’t mean they aren’t vulnerable out here. Once more, he thinks that there’s no way someone hasn’t smelled the two of them. He muses that perhaps that thought is a mix between the worry of being interrupted or attacked, and wishful thinking of someone knowing what he was doing to Stiles, that he was unmistakably claimed for the night. Besides--in the state that Stiles is suffering in, a more comfortable place would likely improve their situation. They don’t have anything here but spit to ease the way between them and deep down, his human side wins. He _really_ doesn’t want to hurt Stiles. He knows he has to control himself in that way.

And he’s got to be real with himself--this isn’t just about Stiles anymore. He _needs_ Stiles right now like he’s the air he breathes. It’s taking an incredible amount of effort to not throw Stiles onto his hands and knees into the trunk of his Jeep, rip his pants down his thighs and rim his hole until Stiles screams to be fucked. Before he can even think, he’s looking back at Stiles and saying the quiet part out loud.

“God, Stiles, I want to eat you,” he moans. Stiles’ eyes open and roll back a little as he whines.

“Oh, fuck, yes, Derek, do it, please. I want it,” he says. Derek’s stomach jumps in a painfully good way and he growls at the permission that Stiles has just blessed him with. 

On second thought, perhaps they can wait a little longer to leave.

He pulls his body away from Stiles and pushes him back toward his Jeep. Stiles looks back at him with the hint of a question in his eyes, but doesn’t struggle. 

“Hands and knees, up there in the trunk,” he says. Stiles’ eyes widen and he nods emphatically and scrambles up into his car, just the way Derek asked. Stiles moves to unbutton his pants but Derek against him in a moment, growling out at him. “Let me,” he says darkly. Stiles shudders beneath him. 

He reaches around Stiles and flicks the button open, forces down the zipper of his fly, and pulls his jeans and boxers down over his ass in quick, efficient movements. Stiles hisses as the cold air hits his most sensitive parts.

“Derek, please,” he breathes. He tries to spread his legs open, but Derek has only pulled his jeans down to his mid-thighs and he can’t move them any farther apart than he’s already got them. 

Derek moans loudly and openly as he fixes his eyes on Stiles. His skin is creamy white here like the rest of him, whiter perhaps than the skin frequently exposed to the sun. But the cock that hangs beneath his thighs is so ramrod hard that the tip is nearly purple. His testicles are drawn up tightly, as if he’s right on the precipice of release again. He’s greeted by the heady smell and visual evidence of multiple orgasms. Stiles’ boxers are saturated at the front and some of his come still clings to where it trailed down his shaft.

And then Derek’s eyes settle on his hole, the skin around it sprinkled with soft hairs--it’s tightly puckered and light dusty brown. His mouth waters at the sight and a fresh bolt of desire settles low in his belly. He can’t _wait_ to be inside of Stiles. The desire for it nearly bowls him over, and he has to grip himself tightly in his pants to ease the discomfort of his own erection. He wants to taste him so badly it hurts.

So, without preamble, Derek bends down, lurches forward, and swipes the broad flat of his tongue on Stiles’ hole. 

He’s rewarded with a pleased cry, and he can only describe the sound as _delicious._ Stiles’ elbows collapse and his chest hits the floor of the trunk, back bowed. Derek continues to lick at him languidly for quite a few moments before kissing at his perineum with insistence. He pulls away to ghost his breath over the spit he’s left behind and Stiles’ thighs begin to quake. Stiles’ cock drips between his legs, the precome dribbling and spilling lewdly down onto the interior carpet of the Jeep.

“Derek, don’t stop,” he moans out, and it sounds exquisitely whorish. Derek’s eyes flash blue and he dives back in to kiss and lick into Stiles. He is absolutely ravenous for him. Stiles tastes even better than Derek could have ever imagined--his sweat and the unique musk of his most delicate area have melded together into something unmatched. Part of him is ashamed that he has imagined before what this would be like, and more than just a few times. 

The experience exceeds his expectations.

He closes his eyes and focuses on his task. His hands come up to grab two palmfuls of Stiles’s cheeks and the man under him presses into the contact. 

Derek wants _more_. The full moon rises higher above them and his skin tingles with increasing insistence. _Take, take, take._

He pulls at Stiles’ flesh and opens him up further against his questing tongue. He firms up the muscle and presses it against Stiles’ hole, and he finally breaches him for the first time. Stiles jerks under him and lets out an unrelenting moan as his invasive tongue presses harder and further into him. Derek continues to work his tongue in and out of Stiles as expertly as he can, laying open-mouthed kisses occasionally as he tasks away. The sounds of Stiles’ pleasure threaten to rip him apart from the inside out.

He reaches one hand down to his own jeans and makes quick work of the button and zip and pulls his aching cock out of its trap and wraps his hand around his shaft. He is offhandedly thankful that he forewent underwear today.

He can’t help but pump himself furiously as he eats at Stiles. He openly moans against his hole when he feels Stiles grab his own member between his legs to jerk himself at a similar pace; he tries desperately to spread his legs again, to no avail. 

“ _Derek,_ ” he says. “Ah, Derek, Derek, oh my god, please don’t stop!”

 _Won’t stop for anything,_ he thinks to himself, as Stiles rocks back on his tongue, desperate for it. Derek can sense his muscles tightening under his attention and his hole flutters filthily around his tongue.

“Fuck, fuck, Derek, holy fuck,” he yelps out in abandon as another orgasm punches out of him. Derek is unable to stave off the shift this time and his ears, claws, and teeth lengthen as his hair spreads down the sides of his face. He pulls away from Stiles’ ass and growls possessively, pleased that he made Stiles come like that, with a wet tongue in his hole. He forces Stiles’ hips down to the carpet so that he can reach him better--he jerks one, two, three more times and suddenly he’s spilling himself against Stiles’ hole and cheeks. He can’t believe how much come spurts out of him and his breath comes out in heaves.

Silence hangs heavy between them as they recover, the lewd sounds of heavy breath deafening the rustle of the wind in the trees around them and the hum of the insects of the forest. Derek bends forward and rests his forehead against the small of Stiles’ back and kisses him there before he can stop himself.

Stiles makes a soft, pleasured noise at the action and Derek peers up, still wolfed out. He sees that Stiles has turned his head to the side and they make eye contact. It takes whatever little breath Derek has left away, because his eyes are _still_ smoldering and Derek knows that if he wasn’t before, he sure is now irrevocably at the mercy of this body underneath him and these pheromones that seem to get thicker and thicker over time.

“Stiles,” he breathes out. “We should go now.” Derek tucks himself back into his jeans and fastens them back up around his still-aching dick.

He feels a spike of panic from Stiles.

“No, we can’t,” he bolts up into a sitting position and Derek sees that his cock is _still hard_ between his legs _._ “Please, I need--I need it.”

“--and you can have it. Just not out here.” Stiles whines out at the denial.

Derek reaches past him to grab his own shirt and cleans Stiles off as best he can. He’s met with a stare that’s full of depth, full of want and desire and something else that Derek can’t place his finger on.

He throws the shirt back in the trunk and leans against the Jeep.

Derek thinks of where they can go. They could drive to Stiles’ home. It’s unlikely that Sheriff Stilinski will sit idly by at home on a full moon. If the Sheriff returns home at any point, though, they run the risk of being caught by a parent. A parent in law-enforcement. The thought makes him cringe in discomfort.

And if they go to the loft, there’s absolutely no way to hide what they’re up to, and no way to sneak about. Derek had already offered for the rest of the McCall pack to come and go as they please. Although it’s a full moon and it’s likely that everyone is enjoying the night, running and fucking and perhaps killing small animals, there’s no guarantee that the loft will be empty for the entire night, either. Plus, anyone nearby would inevitably smell Stiles and possibly investigate.

The thought of being caught, though, starts to sound more and more appealing over time. How would the McCall pack feel, knowing that their honorary human member was being claimed by him? Would they want to watch? Would they want Stiles, smelling the way he was, would they get angry that they couldn’t have him, because he was _his?_   
  
How would Sheriff Stilinski fare? Would he be able to ignore the sounds of their coupling, and avoid the situation out of embarrassment? It was likely. 

His cock twitches in interest at the ideas and blood rushes down to it once more. But he _knows_ that Stiles wouldn’t want that. Stiles was already so embarrassed about being found in the first place, although having his feverish desire whetted seems to have blurred away most of his unease.

If it were any night but the full moon, Derek wouldn’t have any qualms about giving Stiles what he wanted. What he himself wanted. The thought makes his heart race, partly in excitement and partly in disappointment. He imagines the sound of Stiles’ pleasure escalating and echoing through the trees, imagines them getting dirty and sweat-soaked, becoming total victims of their baser natures. 

“Okay, but we have to make it fast,” Stiles interrupts his thoughts, and Derek is minutely surprised that he changed his mind so easily. “It _hurts_.” 

Derek sees him wince in pain and discomfort, hand on his cock again and squeezing hard at the base, knuckles white. His breath continues to labor and the flush has traveled to his chest and shoulders.

He nods to Stiles in assent, trying to ignore his debauched appearance. His pale skin is a vision under the moon. 

“Give me your keys,” he says.

“I can drive, sourwolf.” Stiles says, unconvincing and snarky even through his breathlessness and elevated heart rate. Stiles scooches to the edge of the trunk and shimmies his pants and boxers back up on himself, but he doesn’t bother buttoning or zipping his jeans. He’s too hard to force himself back in the confines of his soaked underwear and pants.

“It wasn’t a question, Stiles,” he growls out, ignoring Stiles’ insult. “You told me that you had to pull over earlier,” his voice is matter-of-fact and leaves no room for argument. He’ll wrestle the keys out of his pocket if he has to.

Stiles looks at him for a heated moment, but resigns with a breathy sigh and fishes out his key ring from his front pocket and throws them to Derek without a word. Derek catches them and then gets into the driver’s seat of the Jeep.

He turns on the ignition before Stiles can even climb in, ready to get somewhere safer with him. Somewhere he can properly lay claim to him, like his hormones are begging for him to do. The passenger door closes behind Stiles and his body is drawn taut against the seat. 

“Is your dad home?” He knows the answer is likely a ‘no’, but he asks the question anyway. They have to go somewhere. He’s getting less picky by the second, and he knows Stiles isn’t in the right mind to really care any less where they are. 

“No,” comes a quick answer. Stiles either can’t or won’t stifle the way the word comes out; it’s low and hoarse and fuck Derek if Stiles’ voice isn’t his personal epitome of a wet dream.

Does he always sound this pornographic when he’s turned on? In this moment, Derek wants more than anything to find out. 

Derek bares his teeth as another heady wave of arousal positively crowds him in the confined space of the Jeep. He whips his head to look at Stiles, who has already pulled his cock out of his boxers and in hand again.

If Derek loses any more control, he’s just going to bend Stiles over the console and fuck him so thoroughly that the man forgets his own name.

He takes a series of deep breaths and thinks of Stiles when he's _not in this state_ and that is enough to force his wolf to back down for the time being. He puts the Jeep into drive and heads out of the Preserve.

**Author's Note:**

> Next chapter to be posted by March 25.
> 
> Any and all feedback is seen and appreciated! Stay tuned.


End file.
